


wait, and hope

by sinfulchihuahua0602



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Idiots in Love, Jaskier has the braincell, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulchihuahua0602/pseuds/sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: jaskier is patient with geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 130





	wait, and hope

Jaskier is patient with Geralt. 

It takes him around a month to read most of Geralt’s hums and grunts for a wide variety of expressions and emotions. Jaskier knows that Geralt likes to think he hides everything from the world under the mask of a Witcher, but Jaskier knows better. He reads Geralt easily, sees the years of trauma layered beneath the pain, layered beneath the silence. 

And he knows that Geralt is more like a scared deer than a wolf, when he digs deep enough. Jaskier loves watching Geralt fight, loves seeing him figure out what monster it is by a few vague traits, and he knows that Geralt is a wolf, is stronger and more intelligent than most people, even without the mutations. But he’s also tired, and scared - tired of the world, scared of his emotions, because Jaskier knows Geralt sees them as a burden. Something he’s not allowed to want, not allowed to have. 

So Jaskier is patient. He’s patient with him when, after two weeks traveling with the Witcher, he brings him down from a panic attack from sensory overload. He doesn’t know what to do, at first, but he idly dances his fingers lightly over Geralt’s arm in his own panic - he always was naturally affectionate - and finds the Witcher’s breath slowing before Jaskier can figure out what he’s doing. He looks at Geralt, doesn’t say anything, but slightly changes the pattern of his fingers and sees those golden eyes flash, head tilting ever so slightly. Jaskier hides a small smile to himself and keeps going, letting Geralt focus on the pattern, and eventually focus on his voice as Jaskier whispers softly to him in a steady voice that  _ he’s safe, it’s okay, he’s here.  _ The bard gradually softens himself as they travel - he notices the small twitches and tension in his Witcher when something is too loud, or too bright, or which scents are too strong. Jaskier learns what to guide Geralt away from, when to make his voice softer, which places will be too much for him, and uses his social talents where Geralt can’t, to save him from the panic he never wants to feel radiating from Geralt again. 

Jaskier is patient when, after eight years of traveling with Geralt, he notices the Witcher returning his idle touches. Jaskier lets his hand trail along his arm when he helps bathe him, lets his fingers stroke through Geralt’s white hair when he helps untangle it. In response, Jaskier feels Geralt linger just a bit longer, step just a little closer. He doesn’t move away from Jaskier as if he’s diseased - though, Jaskier knows that Geralt thinks he’ll hurt the bard. He desperately wants to hold him, tell him that he knows he’d never hurt Jaskier, couldn’t hurt him. But, Geralt is not one to be forced and Jaskier needs to let him come to him, so he gives Geralt small smiles after every lingering touch, after every time the Witcher doesn’t move away, as silent praise and reassurance. 

Ten years, and Geralt calls Jaskier his friend. It’s in front of a client, and for a contract, but the way Geralt says it hides a softer tone, something that Jaskier wants to draw slowly out of him and cherish, let blossom into something bigger. He bites back a smile, doesn’t ask about it later because he knows Geralt meant it and there’s enough tension in the Witcher’s shoulders already. Geralt doesn’t say anything either, but he uses it a second time, a third time, and Jaskier finds it harder and harder to hide his smile. The tension bleeds out of the Witcher’s body as Jaskier gives him just as much affection as before, possibly more, and the fear of rejection from the bard fades slowly. 

Jaskier is patient when he’s dragged out of a house at night, Geralt growling above him about how he shouldn’t have followed him, and the bodies of his kidnappers are strewn about the house, lethal wounds from a steel sword Jaskier knows as well as he knows his lute in each and every one of their bodies. Jaskier reassures Geralt that he’s alive and safe all throughout the night, in drifting touches and golden eyes locked on him as if to make sure he’s still real, still alive. He presses back into Geralt when the Witcher jolts in his sleep, breath stuttering, and Jaskier hears him roll over quickly, feels those eyes scanning him for injuries, calloused hands hovering as if to hold Jaskier, but eventually pulling away. Jaskier bites back a small sigh - he can’t be impatient with Geralt, because it would be selfish of him to force him to accept his love instantly. So he’s patient, and he waits. 

Thirteen years, and Jaskier wonders why thirteen is an unlucky number when he realizes Geralt does love him back. He watches the Witcher shove it away, and he wants nothing more to pull him closer and tell him it’s okay to love him, but he has to be patient. Jaskier’s heart breaks even more for the Witcher as he watches the lingering touches fade away, as Geralt tries insisting that Jaskier doesn’t follow him, even though he learned years ago that the bard would follow him to the ends of the earth - and  _ had  _ followed him there. Jaskier lets Geralt push him away and stays there, as a constant, steady presence despite his attempts. He doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient. 

Sixteen years, and Jaskier notices Geralt accept his love for him as something he’s allowed to feel. Geralt is fierce in his love - he nearly decapitates a man for insinuating that he’d hurt Jaskier, and it’s only the bard’s slightly panicked voice telling Geralt  _ not  _ to get himself thrown into jail that makes the Witcher sheath his blade. Jaskier hides his smile at having Geralt defend him so viciously, even if he regrets that he should’ve probably thought more about his actions as they are pushed out of town as soon as Geralt takes care of the monster. Jaskier redoubles his affection, feels something in his heart soar when Geralt returns the lingering touches once more and instead of insisting that Jaskier doesn’t follow him, tells him the safest place to stand where he’ll get the best view. And won’t get blood spattered on his clothes, because  _ dammit, Geralt, they’re expensive! _

Jaskier is patient twenty two years of traveling with Geralt, when he walks down a mountain after a dragon hunt and forces down his hurt. He tells himself that Geralt doesn’t want to hurt him, that he’s pushing him away because of the fear of hurting him, and he needs to be patient, but it doesn’t stop the tears that come later, in a cramped room at an inn. Jaskier is patient with himself, now, and spends the time putting his heart back together. He’s going to need it, anyway, if he’s going to help Geralt put himself back together.

Twenty-four years pass since Jaskier walked up to Geralt at an inn in Posada. Jaskier takes an offer in a town to play in the tavern for a few days, making quite a bit of coin and earning free room and board for his stay. On the third day, his eyes flick over his audience and he adjusts his songs as he sings, judging the mood of the crowd easily, until he sees light glint off of two swords and white hair glow against the shadows. Jaskier keeps singing, as confident as ever - the show must go on, after all - but he subconsciously speeds up, a frantic, panicked energy fluttering around in his chest. Geralt doesn’t move from his table, though the bard can see the tension in his shoulders - more than usual, which is completely understandable. Jaskier slides into the seat across from him once he finishes, and asks for a review.  _ Three words or less,  _ he says with a hint of nostalgic humor, and doesn’t get much further before Geralt blurts out an apology. It’s not very poetic, and Geralt refuses to look at him during it, but Jaskier simply smiles and accepts his apology. After all, he’s known for years his Witcher isn’t good with emotions, and it would be cruel to force him to come up with a better apology than he’s already given. Especially when Jaskier can see the pain, hidden deep within Geralt’s golden eyes which Jaskier missed so much, and which he can feel tracking him all through the night, as if Geralt believes the bard is going to leave despite his apology. He doesn’t.

Three years pass. Geralt has taken to calling Jaskier his friend, and is as comfortable with him as he was before the mountain. Jaskier returns this with smiles, affection, everything from before - possibly more, because he still can’t quite believe Geralt came back to him, and he himself has a fear of the Witcher leaving, despite knowing Geralt has the same fear about him. Jaskier gives Geralt his heart, lets him hold it in his hands without knowing it, and one part of him hopes he won’t break it; the other part knows he won’t.

Four years, and Geralt gives Jaskier his own heart.

They’re sitting around a fire in the woods, sharing dried jerky. It’s just like any other night - Geralt’s swords rest next to him and Jaskier’s eyes trace the familiar patterns, the shadows along the steel and silver, while his mind races with lyrics, fingers twitching on imaginary lute strings, and voice racing with his thoughts. Geralt’s noncommittal hums go quiet, changing to a low rumble of his name, and Jaskier looks up. His eyes meet amber ones, glowing in the dark like a cat’s and filled with something unreadable. Jaskier’s smile fades, changing to a look of concern, while hope rises in his chest and he unsuccessfully forces it down. 

Geralt’s voice is stilted, uncertain. Jaskier knows what he’s trying to say, but he lets Geralt come to him. It’s been thirty-one years, after all, and Jaskier is not going to force him now, not when he’s waited so long and Geralt has made so much progress.

“You don’t have to travel with me still,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier puts on a smile, adds in a small laugh, even though his heart is racing so hard he wonders if Geralt can hear it. He can’t fuck this up now, he can’t scare Geralt away with a wrong move, so he stands up and sits beside him. He doesn’t touch, not yet, just shakes his head slightly and tries to force his heart to still.

“I wouldn’t ever think of leaving you,” he replies, voice laced with humor, disbelief, and yet holding a touch of softness. He hopes Geralt takes that for what it is - Jaskier’s soul laid out for him, like it’s been for thirty-one years, singing with his love for the Witcher.

Geralt is quiet, but not silent. Jaskier is patient, as he always is, waiting for him to continue.

“You’re nearly fifty,” he says, shortly, but Jaskier hears all the unspoken concerns in that one statement. He’s worked with less, after all, having spent most of the first few years trying to work out only grunts and hums from Geralt, so deciphering this is easy.

“I’m still breathing, and will be until I’m not - however fast or slow that may be. But I’m not leaving you, Geralt. Not willingly, anyway,” Jaskier replies, and now he lets himself relax just slightly into the Witcher. His knee brushes against Geralt’s, and he sees the tension bleed just barely out of him; he counts that as a win anyway.

Jaskier watches Geralt, who stares resolutely at the fire. He feels the Witcher lean just slightly back into him, a move barely noticeable for anyone who hadn’t been traveling with Geralt for three decades. Jaskier keeps his eyes on him, and his fingers drift to the side of his thigh, starting to tap out a pattern lightly on the black leather. He feels Geralt go still, can practically sense his focus as it narrows in on Jaskier’s fingers. He changes the pattern, smiles as Geralt’s head tilts, and then pulls away once he sees the tension drain from the Witcher.

“Geralt,” he says, quietly - a question and statement in one. Geralt lets out a controlled breath, though Jaskier thinks Geralt’s control has never been closer to flying apart than it is now, and turns golden eyes on the bard.

Jaskier gives him a small smile. “I know,” he whispers, sees Geralt’s eyes widen slightly, reads all of the emotion in them with a single searching look.

“Jaskier,” Geralt replies - practically  _ breathes,  _ though Jaskier had no idea that the Witcher’s voice could go that soft, that vulnerable, and he wants to pull him close and hold him.

He can’t right then, but as Geralt tilts his head and meets Jaskier’s lips with his own, he thinks that this is infinitely better.


End file.
